Four days ago, my friend Stefanie Schmidt signed the lease on her new restaurant on Clapham Common. Last night, 14 of us went round for an informal dinner to christen the place. It was a lovely evening filled with delicious schnitzel, gallons of prosecco and brilliant company.
About 1:15 a.m., I grabbed a night bus from Clapham High Street and jumped off at Kennington Road. I walked towards Kennington Cross and turned into the side road at Cardigan Street. There in the bicycle lane, face against the tarmac, motionless, lay a small black woman.
I rang 999 and decided I was after an ambulance. This was not an easy decision to make after dinner and so many drinks, even though there was clearly a woman, who, on further inspection, may or may not have been breathing, lying with her face pressed against the road at 1:30 in the morning in Kennington, South London.
'Is she breathing normally?' the operator asked me. 'I can't tell. There's very little if any move-- Hang on, her head moved the tiniest bit!' And indeed it did, but the motion was simply upward a couple millimetres, very slowly, and back to the original position. She was alive. This is much easier to manage, I thought.
'Can you put your ear near her mouth and listen for breathing?' Can I what now? 'Errm... I'll try,' I answered. 'But I'll have to put my face against the road as well.' 'Please get as close as you can and see if you detect regular breathing. It's very important.'
I wasn't sure if he meant it was very imporant to detect regular breathing or the fact of regular breathing itself. I tried to move in as close as I could, but it was impossible to get my ear anywhere near her face without pressing my cheek into the pile of white paint, twisted into the shape of a bicycle, stuck to the surface of Cardigan Street.
I put my extended fingers in front of her mouth. I felt the tiniest bit of warmth flowing from her lips. 'She seems to be breathing, although it's very light, very faint, and I wouldn't call it "normal."'
'Ok. Next, could you try...' - at this I nearly put the phone down, threw it into a grate and ran home. I didn't want to know what comes after 'Put your ear next to her mouth.'
'...rolling her onto her back?' 'Why?' I asked. 'It will make it easier for her to breathe.' I put my hand on her shoulder and gave her a push.
Like a pixie sprinkled with magic dust, she popped to full consciousness in seconds, leapt to her feet, said she was fine, thanked me for waking her and trundled up Kennington Lane towards the Elephant. I stood with the phone to my ear, dumbfounded, trying to explain what was going on to the emergency operator.
I apologised for ringing in a waste of time. The man on the other end reassured me I had done the right thing. And, yes, of course I had. It's part of the contract human beings have with each other: we don't leave one another unconscious or dead in the middle of the road, or anywhere, because dignity is more important, at the end of all things, than any other thing.
As I hung up, I realised I'd tried, although it seemed involuntary, to sound as English as I could during the 999 call. I can't sound properly English, but I did my best. I suppose I thought it would keep things simple, perhaps ensure my credibility. I wanted to be taken seriously in what was, I was certain, a serious situation. The last thing I wanted was to sound like an hysterical, neurotic North American who rings up the emergency services on a whim.
What is true, and always will be, is the fact that I am a foreigner here. No matter how much I wave my British passport, nothing can ever change that. Something reminds me of it every day.
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